


Sherlock Shorts

by Amilyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Multi, Random & Short, Smut, standalone chapters, unconnected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn/pseuds/Amilyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various standalone shorts of various lengths on various topics.  Random chapters, all unconnected and not even necessarily in the same version of the universe.  1: Sherlock, baking.  2: Sherlock/John smut.  3: Mary finds the baby missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kitchen Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/gifts).



> Many thanks to Solea and Marley for their support, encouragement, beta-reading, suggestions, and prompts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored, Mary and baby are hungry, and the bakery scones are dry and inadequate.

"Sherlock, what's all this?"

John glanced from Mary's wide-eyed "don't ask me" face to Sherlock's manic grin, framed by the flour on his cheek, nose, hands, and down the front of his acids apron.

"Sherlock, when I left you were bored to death and mixing chemicals. Now you're… _baking?_ " He tried to say "What?" but could only stare.

"See, John? I told you the kitchen was a lab."

"Sherlock? It really isn't."

"Baking is chemistry. Chemistry is done in a lab. Ergo the kitchen is a lab."

John closed his eyes and took a slow, steady breath. "Asking again. What's all this?"

"It was Mary's idea."

John turned to the sitting room. "Mary?"

"He was whining like a child about the scones we brought in. They were 'too dry' and 'too crumbly.' Wouldn't listen when I said it was to do with the weather. He was quite rude about it, too." She smiled fondly at Sherlock, who looked rather abashed. "Said I 'must have baby brain' or something equally daft."

John turned to Sherlock, eyebrows raised, and Sherlock began spooning jam and clotted cream into petri dishes. _I'm just going to assume he washed those._ Mary was still talking.

"--pointed out that it was like ash--you have read his monograph on that, haven't you, John? Fascinating analysis--how the clumping varies due to ambient humidity and deliquescence of the various ingredients."

John pursed his lips and managed not to laugh, but smiled broadly as he looked at Sherlock. "So… _you_ are baking scones."

"Of course. They'll be ready in," he tilted his head and sniffed the air, "four and a half minutes. Best get the tea on, John. We wouldn't want to keep Mary waiting."

"Yes, do bring tea when it's ready. I'm in the middle of Sherlock's monograph on blood spattering." Mary smile sweetly. John always thought that smile was a bit...dangerous. And a bit of a turn-on.

He shook his head, then mechanically filled the kettle, counted tea bags into the pot, and set out teacups. He had to admit, the kitchen smelled good for once. He slipped up behind Mary, leaned over her shoulder, and kissed her cheek. She tipped her iPad against her chest, but not before John saw the week's telly schedule. He stifled his chuckle in the crook of her neck.

"How'd you really manage this, then?"

"It's possible that I implied that he couldn't do better than the bakers because of the weather, and I just might have cast aspersions on his ability to use his skills for any practical purposes. It's just possible that I insinuated--subtly, you know--that even Anderson could probably make scones. Probably overdid it on that last one; he was already looking up recipes by that point."

John kissed her. "You are a wicked, wicked woman."

"You wouldn't have it any other way."

"Doesn't seem so, does it?" He kissed her again just as the kettle boiled.

"John! Tea!"

"Duty calls."

Flour was now dusting Sherlock's _hair_. John poured the boiling water into the pot and caught only a whiff of tea before Sherlock yanked the oven open and freshly baked scones scented the kitchen.

"Sherlock, those actually smell good." John loaded the tea on its tray.

"Of course they do." The trays clanked as Sherlock set them down hard on the oven, yanked his hands back, tossed the cloth aside, and blew on his fingertips.

"Best run those under some water." John stared at the trays. "Sherlock. There are only three of us. Why are there...five by four...over _forty_ scones?"

"Experiment, John." The dismissive tone said it was boringly obvious.

John crossed his arms, cocked an eyebrow, and stared. "You baked us afternoon tea. Which part was an experiment?"

"It was Mary's idea."

John glanced through the door, but Mary wouldn't catch his eye. Not suspicious at all, that. "How _precisely_ , was baking scones for the _entire block_ Mary's idea?"

"When she pointed out that the weather affects deliquescence, it became clear that the dry ingredients and types of the storage containers would affect outcomes, as well as the variations of sieved vs. unsieved, self-raising flour vs. plain vs. 00-flour, bicarb vs. cream of tartar and baking powder, formed vs. cut, cold vs. softened butter, hand-mixed vs. utensil--"

"All right, I get the point. Tea?"

"Right. Three minutes. Perfect." Sherlock began setting the scones onto racks and carefully placed a scone on a plate for each of them and added them to the tray. "Mary, tea is served."

Mary set aside the iPad, smiling broadly. "Oh, Sherlock, how lovely!"

"I did make the tea, you know,"

Mary waved him off. "Now, Sherlock, take off that dreadful lab apron before you sit."

Sherlock actually looked embarrassed for half a second before removing the offending item.

Mary shifted in her chair and settled her teacup on her belly. "She does make a good table," she said as she sipped. "Now, Sherlock, where are the clotted cream and jam?"

John stared as Sherlock hopped to his feet and returned with the petri dishes.

"Thank you, Sherlock. You're a dear."

John blinked harder. Mary spread the cream and jam on her scone and took a bite.

"Oh, Sherlock, these are heavenly. Just what my girl and I have been wanting. Mmm."

John reached for his scone and took a bite. It was...he swallowed hard. "Sherlock, _why_ does my scone taste like...curry?"

"Ah, yes. Mary likes plain or fruit, but you've never expressed a fondness for scones of any type, so I added some of your leftovers. Do you like it, John?"

John dropped the scone back onto the plate. "Surprisingly not bad," he said.

Mary's eyes danced, and the large bite of scone to stifle giggles.

Sherlock held out another scone. "Mary, tell me how that one compares to this. After you've tried them, I'll tell you the difference.

John gulped his tea. They'd be the death of him, and he'd love every minute.

***  
~end~  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great article on scones. :-)  
> http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/apr/22/how-to-make-perfect-scones


	2. Vibrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, music, addiction, and pleasure. John/Sherlock.

His vision narrows to a point even before he shuts his eyes, hands clenching and unclenching in syncopation with his gasps.

It’s like John is sucking sound directly from him, except John's mouth isn’t on his, though he would swear he _feels_ John’s tongue on every inch of his body.

Sherlock’s nerve endings hum, oscillations of pleasure an extended sine wave cycling 1000 Hz along a bowed string. The frequency chases itself through his abdomen, groin, the soles of his feet, the insides of his arms.

John’s throat muscles undulate around Sherlock’s cock, and the pitch abruptly jumps to 1400 Hz, a maddening vibrato on an E-string. The note engulfs his nervous system and voice, and all he can hear or think or feel is his body singing and singing and singing.

F-six is still ringing in his ears as John palms his scrotum, one finger still lazily circling his prostate.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

John's eyes are soft-lidded, his smile self-satisfied.

He pulls John up presses their lips together, swiping his tongue between John’s lips the way John’s tongue had fondled his slit.

He nips down John’s neck. "John Watson," he murmurs between kisses, "you are better than cocaine."

A short laugh, then words vibrate against Sherlock's lips. "Addicted to me, are you?"

Sherlock nuzzles in. "Without doubt."

***  
~end~  
***


	3. Their Sacred Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recently home from the hospital, Mary awakens, finds her daughter missing, and panics.

Mary felt like she'd not slept in weeks. She barely ached anymore except with lingering fatigue. John had kissed her forehead and tucked her in, and her bed had encompassed her, drawing her away from consciousness. Oblivion should have been dark and restful, but was filled with frantically active, technicolour dreams.

In them, her lives merged...her parents were disapproving of her espionage work they’d never known of and being so very proud of this little granddaughter they'd never meet, and she was in Uzbekistan and El Salvador and Pakistan and China and London and setting up a long-range shot with John in her sights while making love to him on the sofa at Baker Street when Sherlock was out, but Sherlock was bleeding out in Magnussen's office and Baker Street and her hospital room, and John was never going to speak to her again and was spooned against her with one hand on her belly and pressing his cheek to hers as they greeted their daughter.

She shifted, and John's hand pressed warm on her belly, which was less taut now, but still round. She felt more weighed down with exhaustion than after she'd trekked two weeks from Kosovo to the coast of Greece after the mission where she'd realised she'd been burned, and there was no extraction on its way.

She settled her hand atop John's, lacing her fingers through his, and he squeezed lightly, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. She settled back against him. He was her warmth this rainy, cloudy, never-ending winter, the winter he'd come back to her and they'd had a baby.

She'd had a baby. A daughter. A tiny life that she was responsible for saving, every day.

She only knew how to end lives.

It was quiet. The clock said she'd slept for nearly four hours. How could the baby still be asleep? She patted the bassinet, but there were only extra blankets.

She was used to being able to snap to her feet out of a sound sleep, gun already in hand. She tried to sit up, heart pounding, needing to check, to find her baby. Her body barely responded, and even her arms and head felt heavy. John tightened his hold.

"'S'all right," he mumbled, shifting his hand to cover hers, stroking with his thumb twice before his light snoring resumed.

There was a hint of music. She'd thought she'd dreamt it. A board in the living room creaked once, then twice. A footfall landed softly.

Mary was tense all over, listening, assessing for danger with her only sharp sense.

She extricated herself from John and palmed the ASP baton that was their compromise; their loaded and illegal guns were locked in a safe. She cursed herself for agreeing to utter folly, but she’d been reeling from the roller coaster of emotions that followed Christmas. She clutched the baton, but it gave her none of the sense of security or control as the grip of a pistol. She and John would have _that_ discussion again.

Protecting her daughter was her _job_ now. 

Danger did not prick the back of her arms, but she did not know where her baby was. She bit her lips, unable to achieve the cold calm she’d always prided herself on. Only her training kept her breathing steady.

She peered around the bedroom door. The hall was clear. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary but fear still tugged at her. She crept toward the living room entrance, checked around the corner, and froze.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she barely managed to hold onto the baton.

Sherlock was there, his heart so visible he might as well have been bleeding onto the floor.

His face was relaxed, and a soft smile played across those full lips even as he hummed. Mary recognised the waltz Sherlock had written for her and John, but Sherlock was not dancing as she'd imagined him doing while tutoring John. Instead he swayed gently. His left arm was cradling the baby, draped with the blanket Mrs. Hudson had knitted. He held a bottle in the other hand, his shoulders shrugged up to contain the tiny body in those long limbs. His entire, hyper-focused attention was on the tiny features he'd already analysed as coming from her or John (or John's great-aunt Mildred, whom even John had never met). The tiny chin puckered rhythmically, and miniature fingers were curled around his little finger. Her daughter was practically melted into Sherlock's chest.

She wanted to get John, but she was rooted to the spot, the captivating, haunting tune a distant second to the captivating vision of Sherlock suffused with raw love. Even his most exposed glances at John when he thought no one was looking could not parallel this.

A floorboard creaked softly behind her, and John rested his chin on her shoulder, bringing his arms around her waist. He swayed with her in time to Sherlock's humming as her tears spilled.

Protecting her daughter was not her job alone. The pure love on Sherlock's face was what she'd felt, what she'd seen as John cradled the baby. The three of them, they could keep this tiny girl alive and safe. She felt light, content, even energised. They'd do it together.

***  
~end~  
***


End file.
